


Runaway American Dream

by J (j_writes)



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_writes/pseuds/J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had gotten to the point where he was pretty damn sure that nobody even remembered he'd had a real name in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway American Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Dr. Longball AU

The first time Ray saw the Mountie, he practically killed him.

He was riding his bike down Main Street…the only motorcycle in Willison, at least as far as he knew…except for that old one that Carl Davis from next door kept in his garage in three million pieces. _Someday, I'm gonna finish this thing,_ he'd tell Ray when he was a kid and would sit for hours on the stone wall that separated their yards, watching Carl put things together and take them apart again. _Bike's no good unless you build it yourself,_ Carl always said, but Ray thought his was pretty good even though he'd bought it at a dealership three towns over. It was better than Carl's at least, because that damn bike was still in pieces, had never touched the road in its life and probably never would.

 _A bike, kid. It's your freedom, see?_ and he hadn't seen. Not then…not for a long time. But he did now, and maybe Carl could find his freedom just escaping the house to work on the thing, but that wouldn't be enough for Ray, because Ray was a guy who liked to go _fast_. Always had been, and maybe that was why he'd gotten into baseball, all those years ago. Because there was nothing like rounding that last base and hearing the crowd yelling your name and sliding down into the dirt, hitting the ground and the plate at top speed, sending up that cloud of dust that meant _safe_ , meant victory.

 _Ace_ , that was what they yelled. It was what they called him, everyone in this town, and it had gotten to the point where he was pretty damn sure that nobody even remembered he'd had a real name in the first place. It sucked sometimes, sucked hard, because Ace wasn't who he was, not really. In the beginning, back when he was a kid, he was only Ace when he was on the field, with a bat in his hands and his shoes in the dirt. But now it was how they all thought of him all the time, and Ray Leary had gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Anyway, the Mountie. Ray had been coming around the bend, the one that led into the middle of town, on his way to the garage, and right there in the middle of the road was old Mrs. Baker, which wasn't anything new, really. Normally, he'd just swerve around her and keep going. But there was this guy with her, standing in the middle of the road, right where Ray would have swerved, and holding up a hand like he expected to _not_ get run over or something. Like he thought that stopping traffic to help some little old lady across the street was a normal kind of thing around here.

Of course, all of that took a few moments to process. Pretty much the only signal that reached Ray's brain at first was _red!_

Red generally means stop, especially when it's in the shape of a guy standing in your path, so Ray hit the brakes and skidded, first to the left, then to the right, and came to a screeching halt about two feet from the guy. Guy never even blinked. He said something, probably to Ray, but the bike was pretty loud, and the only thing Ray got out of it was _traffic regulations_.

He pretended to be listening, and when the guy finally stopped talking, Ray gave him that winning Ace Leary smile and told him to "Bite me, Red."

He probably laid down rubber as he roared off down Main Street, but he didn't bother looking back to find out.  
______________

He showed up at the ballpark covered in grease.

It seemed to follow him everywhere, that slick feel of engine grease and gasoline, mixed with the grassy-smelling dust of the game. Seemed like no matter how many showers he took he always felt it there, this thin layer between him and everything else.

He stood under the cool water in the locker room, not patient enough to let it warm up for him before he got in, and he watched the dirt drip from his hands and arms and swirl around the drain before disappearing. It didn't really make sense, showering before practice, but he'd gotten crap from Huck one too many times, and had learned that it was easier just to save himself the trouble of listening to the old man bitch at him about getting grease on the bats, the balls, the uniforms.

_Be a mechanic on your own time. When you're on this field, you're a baseball player._

Maybe he wouldn't have been a mechanic at all if things had worked out the way they should have, and maybe he wouldn't have had to listen to Huck's endless rations of shit at all either. Would've been nice. To be a baseball player on his own time and everyone else's too. To have someone say to him, _hey, Ace, nice to meet you, what do you do?_ and be able to say _I play baseball_. Or better yet, to not have them ask at all. To have them just know.

 _That's Ace Leary_ , they'd say, and that'd be enough.

But things don't always turn out the way they're planned. Hell, when Ray's involved, they _never_ turn out that way. So there he was, standing there in this damn small town locker room, rinsing the grease from Lou's garage off his arms and trying to remember why he never got his ass out of this shithole town in the beginning.

"You done yet, Leary?" he heard from the other side of the flimsy plastic curtain, and before he could even get his mouth open, there was a rush of cool air and he was standing there naked while Bubba held back the curtain, laughing like it wasn’t something that happened every damn day. You'd think the guy would've gotten enough naked Ray to last a lifetime.

The other guys barely even glanced in his direction. "Better get that skinny ass in gear," Olson called back over his shoulder as he walked out of the locker room, swinging a bat like it was a damn baton. Ray shot a finger at Olson's retreating back, but Bubba was the only one who saw, and what the hell was the fun in that?

He wrapped a towel around his waist and ran some gel through his hair. Not much, not like when he was a kid and he’d stick it all up in the air like there was no tomorrow, like he was trying to reach the fucking sky with it or something. Idiot kid. Just got mashed down by his hat anyways. Now it was just enough to keep it up out of his way, off his forehead, because there was really nothing more obnoxious than hair tickling your head while you were trying to play some baseball.

Then the uniform was on, the glove warm around his hand, and when he glanced in the mirror he looked almost respectable, almost like someone he’d want to be.  
_______________

Long practice, long day, and he needed another shower.

He stripped down to his boxers and fiddled with the stuff in his locker, trying to find a towel that could pass for clean while he waited for one of the stalls to open up. Huck was off in the corner talking animatedly with Sheriff Welsh and this other guy who just kinda screamed _Chicago cop_. Must be one of those experts the sheriff brought in from the city. Probably a damn patronizing son of a bitch just like most city people. Thought that just because a guy grew up in a town like Willison meant he didn’t have brains worth shit.

And then the door opened and he forgot all about the city cop, because goddamn if it wasn’t that crazy bastard from this morning, the one who thought that he could just stand in the middle of the street anytime he wanted. He couldn’t imagine that the guy would remember him…he’d gone by pretty quick, but there was this look of almost-recognition on the guy’s face that made Ray a little uneasy.

So he nodded in the guy’s direction, just kind of an acknowledgement that _yup, you’re standing in my locker room_ , and he turned back to shuffle some more things around in his locker.

He didn’t have to turn around to know that the guy’s eyes were still on him. “Look,” he finally said to his open locker, “you gonna stand there and stare at me all day, or you got something better to be doing with yourself?”

“Oh I’m quite sure it won’t be _all_ day,” was the reply, and for the life of him Ray couldn’t find the slightest bit of sarcasm in the words. “I have no doubt that Lieutenant Welsh will be finished with his brother and your coach in just a few minutes.”

“So you’re thinking of standing there staring at me until then? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, it’s not the best way to introduce yourself around here. Maybe that’s how you Chicago people do things…” He trailed off and shrugged.

That seemed to get a tiny smile out of him at least. “Oh, I’m not from Chicago.” He straightened up a little into Proper Introduction Stance or whatever, and said, “Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on the trail of my father’s killers, and—“

“You stuck around?”

“I did, yes. Attached as a liaison to the Canadian Consulate.”

“Mountie, huh?” Ray asked, and looked pointedly at the ridiculous uniform. “Explains a lot.” He nodded towards the Chicago cop. “How are the Canadians involved in all this?”

“Oh, we’re not, strictly speaking. I’m here as a favor to Lieutenant Welsh.”

“Favor. Right. Must be a Canadian thing.”

“On the contrary. Common courtesy is a practice which should be observed regardless of one’s country of origin.”

“So are pants,” Constantino said, pushing past the Mountie and glancing down at Ray’s boxer-clad legs. “Especially for you, Ace. Nobody wants to be checking out your chicken legs. Well, except maybe Bubba.”

“You never know,” Ray said with a shrug, propping one foot up on the bench. “Maybe the Mountie likes ‘em.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at him. No better way to chase a guy out of your locker room than hitting on him. “That right, Red?”

Something shifted in Fraser’s expression. “You drive a motorcycle,” he said, and Ray could practically hear the pieces falling into place in that Canadian head of his.

“That’s Ace alright,” said Olson from over Ray’s shoulder. “If you go for that sort of thing, he’s your man.” He shoved Ray’s shoulder, just a little too hard to be friendly, a little too soft to actually knock him off balance. “Shower’s empty, Ace. In case you were, you know, distracted,” he added as he climbed over the bench and opened his locker.

Ray picked up his towel. “I’m gonna…” He waved the towel past Fraser, at the showers.

"Of course," Fraser replied, stepping back out of his way. "Nice to meet you, Mr…" he trailed off, looking at a loss. "Ace."

"Leary," Ray filled in for him. "Ace Leary."

"Leary," Fraser repeated with a nod like he'd known it all along. Ray slipped by him and rolled his eyes as he walked towards the showers.

Canadian. Figured.  
______________

He left the locker room thinking of a big juicy burger from the Main Street diner and found a wolf instead.

He'd been the last one to practice, and his bike was parked pretty far out into the parking lot, so he'd started thinking about where to stop for dinner on the way. That was why he didn't notice the dog stretched out beside it until he was practically on top of the thing. The dog looked up at him with these big blue eyes and made a noise that was way too pathetic to come out of something that big.

"What?" he asked, and decided not to think too much about the fact that he was talking to a dog. "What'a you want, mutt?"

"I expect he wants you to feed him," came the reply from behind him. "Although why he would think that you had food is anyone's guess."

Ray turned and wasn't entirely surprised to see the Mountie crossing the parking lot. "Well I was thinking about a burger. Maybe he's psychic." He waved a hand at the dog. "He yours?"

"In a manner of speaking, although I'm sure he'd take exception to the notion. As for his psychic abilities, I'd venture to say you're probably not too far off the mark."

Ray grinned and turned back to the dog. "Ok, mutt, what am I thinking now?" The dog let out a low growl. "Hey," he said, turning to Fraser, "he's right. Pretty smart dog."

"Oh, he wasn't answering you," Fraser corrected him. "He was simply expressing his displeasure at being called 'mutt'. He's half wolf, and tends to be sensitive about these things. Oh, and also, he can't hear you. He's reading your lips."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "You have a lip-reading wolf."

"Or he has me. I fear that's a debate that will never be satisfactorily resolved."

"Does he like burgers?"

Fraser raised an eyebrow. "Dief likes anything that's edible. And many things that aren't."

"Because there's this diner on Main Street that's got the best burgers in Illinois. And probably in the whole damn country."

Fraser looked a little confused. "Well thank you for the recommendation, Ace. Maybe we will stop in there for dinner later."

"Ray," he heard himself saying without really knowing why.

"I'm sorry?"

"Ray. It's…my name is Ray."

"Oh, I apologize. I was quite sure I heard—"

"Ace. Yeah. That's what…it's what people call me. But my name's Ray. And, see, the reason I mentioned the burgers is that I'm headed over there now to get one. Thought maybe you and the m— the wolf would like to try 'em."

"Well thank you for the invitation, Ray, but—"

"Come on," Ray prodded. "I know the wolf's hungry, and I'll bet you are too. You can tell me how a Mountie and a lip-reading deaf half-wolf end up in Willison."

He could see Fraser weakening. "Well…"

"Excellent," he said before the Mountie could continue. "It's only three blocks that way." He pointed past the ballpark. "We can walk it easy." And they set off across the parking lot, Dief tagging along at their heels.  
______________

They were the only ones in the diner. It was still afternoon, after the lunch rush and before the dinner one, and Ray and Fraser had the place to themselves. Brenda had come by to see what they wanted, and Ray had ordered for them both, waiting until she'd walked away to turn to Fraser and say "You're not a vegetarian, are you?" He assured him that he wasn't, and Ray made a few jokes about moose burgers that either sailed right over the Mountie's head or he didn't find them very funny. It was kinda hard to tell which.

"So I'll bet you always wanted to be a Mountie, didn't you?" Ray said, and Fraser smiled a little.

"Well, my father was one, so perhaps it's in the genes. There was a period of time when I thought I'd be a hockey player, though," he replied, and Ray had to laugh at that.

"Well of course. You _are_ Canadian. So what happened?"

"What happened with what?"

"Why aren't you a hockey player."

"Ah." Fraser took a sip of his water. "I wasn't very good at it."

"Yeah, that'll do it," Ray agreed. "You know, I can just see you as a kid, walking around the house in your dad's Mountie hat, pretending to capture bad guys. Me, I always wanted to play baseball."

"You _do_ play baseball."

"No." Ray shook his head. "No, Fraser, I don't. Not this…" he waved his hand at the window in the direction of the ballpark. "This amateur shit. You think I wanted to stay here in this hick town my whole life?"

"It's hardly a hick town, Ray," Fraser said mildly. "Why, the town where I grew up—"

"Yeah, I get it, I get it," Ray cut in. "You win. You lived in the wilderness with the Eskimos, and the beavers, and the…the goddamn _moose_ , ok? I get that. And maybe this isn't East Mountiefuck, Canada, but that doesn't make it suck any less."

"You could always leave," Fraser suggested, and it pissed Ray off that he said it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Yeah, well, that was the plan," he said flatly.

"The plan didn't work out?" Fraser guessed, and under the table Ray felt Dief lay his head on his lap, as if he was listening to him.

He reached down to run his fingers through the wolf's fur. "Broke my leg senior year of high school. Messed it up good, you know? And baseball, that was my ticket out of this place. I was never a school kind of guy, couldn't have gotten into college without a scholarship. So that was kinda my last hope, and everyone thought that it was gonna happen, too. That was the part that really sucked about the whole thing. Because it wasn't just about me by that point. It was about the whole town. That was me, you know? Ace Leary, Willison's fucking hero or something.

"And then the scouts got here and I couldn't even walk. Didn't think I was ever going to be able to play again. So they turned right around and left town, and Lou gave me a job at his garage, and here I am." He tipped back in his chair and smiled with only a hint of bitterness. "I should be a goddamn tv movie."

"I'd watch it," Brenda told him, leaning over him to set their plates on the table. She reached behind Ray and pushed him back upright. "Don't you tip my chairs, Ace. You'll fall and break your head and scramble what little brains you've got left in there."

"See? This town loves me," Ray told Fraser with a grin. Fraser smiled back and then turned to inspect his burger as if he expected it to sprout eyes and look back at him. Ray raised an eyebrow. "You gonna eat it or make friends with it?" he asked. "I know you're from Canada and all, but you can't tell me you've never seen a burger before."

"Of course I have, Ray. It's just—" he picked it up in both hands and looked at it helplessly. "It's so _big_."

Ray grinned. "Told you it was the best," he said, picking his up and taking a huge bite. Dief whined from somewhere around the vicinity of his knees, so he snuck down a couple of fries for him.

Apparently he wasn't so good at the sneaking thing. "You know, you really shouldn't encourage him," Fraser told him sternly.

"Oh, lighten up," Ray said, taking a fry from Fraser's plate and biting into it. "And eat your burger," he added, pointing at it with the remaining half of the fry. Fraser tipped the burger from one side to the other, like he was devising a battle plan or something. "Oh for godssakes!" Ray finally burst out. "Just open your mouth and stick it in!"

Well. That pretty much couldn't have come out more wrong if he'd tried.

"Classy, Ace," drawled Brenda from behind the counter, and across from him Fraser flushed to match his jacket.

"Yeah, well, you know me. I'm a classy guy," he replied, hoping that he wasn't turning the same color as Fraser. He stuffed his face with burger and tried to pretend he hadn't said anything at all. Fraser did the same, and Ray watched his face, waiting for the verdict. When Fraser looked back up at him, he was wearing a mildly impressed expression, which Ray figured was probably the equivalent of a normal person jumping up and down.

"Good, huh?" he asked.

"Very good," Fraser agreed.

"Better than moose burgers, I bet."

"You know, Ray, moose are not generally—"

"Fraser."

"Yes, Ray. Better than moose burgers."

"Thought so."

They talked and laughed their way through the rest of the meal, Ray slipping bits of burger to Dief when he thought Fraser wasn't looking, and Fraser pretending not to notice. And if Ray found himself laughing a little harder than usual or letting his eyes rest a little too long on the Mountie's dark hair and blue eyes, well it was just because he was someone new in town, and how the hell often did that happen, after all?  
______________

The sun was setting by the time they left the diner, and they probably could have sat there talking for a few more hours, but Dief was getting restless. Ray had insisted on walking Fraser back to the hotel he was staying at, and Fraser had insisted on walking Ray back to his bike, so they stood outside the diner for a few moments bickering over it while Dief took it upon himself to sniff every fire hydrant and mailbox on Main Street. Well, ok, Ray bickered. Fraser just made reasonable objections. Eventually Ray suggested that they take Dief to the park and toss him some baseballs, and argue about who was going to walk who home later. Fraser made some noise about finding Lieutenant Welsh, but Ray suggested that they give him some time alone with his brother, which, all things considered, was uncharacteristically logical of him. It seemed to be the one thing that could possibly shut Fraser up, at least, and that was something.

They were quiet on the way to the ballpark, feeling full of burgers and coffee and the pie that Brenda had forced on them. Dief bounded a block ahead of them most of the way, taking detours in and out of the lawns that lined the street.

"Must be nice," Ray said, watching him sniff at a particularly hideous potted plant in the Liesmans' yard.

"Hmm?" replied Fraser, and Ray knew that he must be full, or tired, or maybe all of the above, because he'd lost the need to use full words.

Ray waved a hand at Dief. "Being a dog. Or a wolf," he amended as Fraser opened his mouth. "No responsibilities, no nagging neighbors, just running around and sniffing things and sleeping and eating…it's the good life, you know?"

"I doubt Diefenbaker would see it that way," Fraser said.

"You don't think he's happy?" Ray asked, turning to look at Fraser. "I think he's happy. Seems like he's smiling most of the time, doesn't he?"

"So do you," Fraser said, and hell, what could a guy really say to something like that?

"We're here," he said needlessly instead of trying to come up with a reply. The ballpark was dark, but a quick trip into the locker room solved that, with Ray unlocking the door, hitting the switch, and watching the lights flicker to life around the diamond, flooding the stadium with light. He grabbed his glove and spare from his locker, picked up a bat and a bag of baseballs on the way to the door, and headed back out onto the field. Fraser was leaning against the fence by the dugout, looking ridiculously out of place in that uniform of his.

Ray tossed one of the gloves to him and one of the balls out into the outfield, which Dief immediately ran after. He leaned back on the fence beside Fraser, feeling it dip back a little as it took his weight. "You ever play baseball, Frase?" he asked, eyes following Dief as he batted the ball around before picking it up and trotting back towards them.

"Not competitively," Fraser replied. "But I had a friend when I was young, Innusiq, and he went through a phase in which he was fascinated by the game. We would spend hours pitching to each other and seeing who could hit the ball further into the woods."

"Bet you always won," Ray said with a grin.

"He was a competent player," Fraser said evasively.

"Fraser."

"Yes. I usually won."

Dief nudged Ray's knee with his nose, dropping the ball at his feet. Ray picked it up and tossed it back into the outfield, but Dief flopped down into the dirt and watched it bounce and roll to settle in the grass. "Think this is a stupid game, don't you?" Ray asked, and Dief snorted, sending up a cloud of dust. "Yeah, ok, wolves are too cool to play fetch, I get it." He tossed another ball at Fraser, who caught it without once looking in his direction. "How about Mounties? They too cool for baseball too?"

Fraser glanced down at his uniform. "I'm not really dressed for a game."

"I'm sure I've got something in my locker," Ray said, standing up and starting towards the locker room. He paused at the door, turning to find that Fraser hadn't followed him. "It's clean, I swear," he said. "I keep stuff in there in case I'm going somewhere after practice."

"I hardly think we'd fit in the same size clothes, Ray," Fraser said, but at least he moved from the fence and started towards the locker room.

Ray shrugged. "We're pretty much the same height…that damn hat just makes you look taller than you are. Stuff might be a little tight, but who's gonna see you? I promise I won't laugh. Too much. And it's better than that," he added, waving a hand at Fraser.

Fraser still looked a little uncertain, but he followed Ray into the locker room and sat on the bench behind him while he shuffled through the clothes in the top of his locker. "Here," he finally said, tossing a pair of jeans that were too baggy for him and an old jersey at Fraser's chest. He eyed the uniform. "How long does it take you to get out of that thing, anyway? There's got to be about a thousand buttons and buckles and...other stuff."

"It's remarkably easy, Ray," Fraser said, setting his hat carefully on the bench beside him. "Of course, that's after years of practice…"

Ray swallowed and tried not to think too hard about Fraser practicing to take it off. "Yeah, well, ok, I'll just…" he waved towards the door. "I'll just go keep Dief company."

Dief didn't seem to care one way or the other when Ray came out, stretched out as he was in the dirt, but Ray was a little relieved to feel the cool air on his face. It'd been pretty warm in that locker room.

He tossed a couple balls up for himself and hit them into the outfield, just like he used to do in his backyard when he was a kid. Dief looked up at the first crack of the bat, but lost interest quickly, lowering his head back onto his paws and watching Ray out of the corner of his eye. Eventually he heard the locker room door slamming shut, and turned to find Fraser standing there in the doorway looking more than a little uncomfortable.

Damn.

Ray hadn't exactly failed to notice the way Fraser looked while he was in that uniform of his, of course, because he _was_ a living breathing human after all. But it seemed like that outfit had been purposely designed to draw attention away from the guy wearing it, to make him The Mountie as opposed to a real person. But now, standing there in fraying jeans— _Ray's_ jeans—that clung to all the right places, and a faded old jersey with grass stains on the elbows, he suddenly looked like he'd stepped right off the July page of some Unbearably Hot Baseball Players calendar.

"Fits ok," was all Ray could think of to say, and Fraser looked down at himself skeptically.

"I'm not so sure about that, Ray," he said, frowning a little, but he stepped away from the door, and Ray noticed as he crossed the grass to meet him that even his walk changed when he was out of uniform. It was like he was freer somehow, more himself.

It wasn't until Fraser had nearly reached him that Ray noticed he was barefoot. "Um, Fraser, you lost your shoes there," he commented.

"Well I can't very well play baseball in boots, can I?" Fraser asked reasonably.

Ray shrugged. "Guess not." He nodded towards the pitcher's mound. "You want to pitch or bat?"

"Whatever is better for you," Fraser said quickly, and Ray shook his head.

"Doesn't work that way, Frase. I asked first. Which one?"

Fraser debated for a minute, then nodded towards the mound. "I'll pitch." He jogged across the grass to pick up the bag of balls from the fence, and Ray wasn't thinking about all the double entendres that were being unwittingly tossed around, not at all, and he _definitely_ wasn't watching Fraser run over there, wasn't admiring how nice those jeans made Fraser's ass look.

Nope. Nothing to admire there.

"You ready, Ray?" Fraser called from the mound, and Ray was ready, boy was he ready.

"Bring it on, Red," he called back, and he felt the _whoosh_ as the ball flew by him, and heard the clang as it struck up against the fence behind him, but goddamn if he saw it, even for a split second. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled out, jumping back at least a handful of seconds too late. "Shit, Fraser, you've got a hell of an arm on you. No wonder you always won. Inna-whatever probably never even saw the ball long enough to hit the damn thing."

"Would you rather I hit, Ray?" Fraser asked, and he sounded worried, like he was afraid he'd done something wrong.

"Not a chance, Mountie," Ray replied. "You think you can get me out that easy? Takes three strikes, my friend, or did you never learn that rule up there where you had to play baseball with nothing but snowballs and sticks?"

Fraser's reply was to pull another ball out of the bag and wind up with something that might have been a challenge in his eyes. This time Ray didn't even try to swing, just watched as it left his hands, and managed to follow its path as it passed him. There had to be a method to the Mountie's madness, because it seemed like there was a method to everything that guy did. The next time he'd swing, and he'd hit it too, because he was just that good.

"Last chance, Red," Ray called. "Give me your best shot."

Fraser reached down to retrieve another ball and tossed it between his hands twice, watching Ray, then he smiled, wound up, and let it fly. This time, there was a satisfying _crack_ and Ray felt the impact from his hands up to his shoulders and into the rest of him. The ball sailed up, over Fraser's head, bounced off the scoreboard, and disappeared into the trees. Ray didn't see it land, because he was already running, heading for first, rounding that and running for second.

"You don't have to run, Ray," he heard Fraser calling after him. "We're not really playing, you know."

"Best part of the game," Ray called back as he slid a little in the dirt by third and started down the home stretch. He slid into home, sending up a cloud of dust and startling Diefenbaker out of his snooze. He lay there on his back in the dirt, watching wisps of dust curling up into the harsh light of the overheads. Then Fraser appeared in his field of vision, leaning over him, offering him a hand up. He took it, felt it close warm and solid around his own, and staggered to his feet, grinning.

"Best part of the game," he repeated, and Fraser's smile was only a few inches from his, a real smile, not one of those fake polite Canadian smiles, and there was this smudge of dirt across his forehead where he'd brushed back his hair that Ray just wanted to wipe off. So he did, reaching up between them and laughing as he swiped a thumb across Fraser's skin, fingers slipping just the slightest bit into that warm dark hair. Fraser's smile didn't fade, in fact it might have gotten just the slightest bit bigger as he mirrored Ray's movements, reaching in to run a thumb across Ray's cheek. He pulled his hand back and Ray saw a faint smear of dirt there that had been on his face from his slide.

Neither of them moved, Ray's hand tangled in Fraser's hair, Fraser's hand hovering just by Ray's jaw, so close he could feel the heat coming off it in waves, and then it seemed like there was nothing to do but lean in and taste the mingled flavors of Fraser and dust on his lips, their tongues sliding together and then apart again, hands running across fabric, skin, hair, anything they could reach.

Eventually Dief barked next to them, hopping up to paw at Fraser's leg, nearly sending the two of them toppling back down into the dirt. Ray steadied them both and looked down at the traitorous wolf. "Damn mutt," he mouthed down at him, and Fraser didn't seem to notice, but Dief did, and he gave Ray a resentful glare before slinking back to settle down in the dirt.

Fraser's eyes didn't move from Ray's, and when he looked back up to meet them, there was a distinct edge of panic there. "Hey," he said, sliding his hand down from Fraser's hair to rest on the back of his neck. "Hey. You're not gonna freak on me here, are you?"

He shook his head slowly, and Ray watched the alarm fade a little from his expression. "No, Ray," he said quietly.

"Good," Ray said, and pulled back enough to take Fraser's shoulders and give him a push in the direction of the locker room. Fraser glanced over his shoulder, looking worried again, but Ray kept a hand there and followed him, propelling him off the field. "Frase, we're in the middle of a baseball diamond with a million very bright lights on us, at night, in a very small town. I think it would probably be better for everyone involved if we took this somewhere a little less…exposed."

"Understood, Ray," Fraser said, and started walking towards the door without Ray's prompting. Ray dropped back a little to admire the view, and wondered if it should turn him on so much that those were _his_ pants that were clinging to that ass, _his_ name written on the jersey Fraser wore. Like someone had come along and scrawled _property of Leary_ across his back.

The door had barely swung closed behind them before his hands found Fraser again, spinning him and pressing him back against the lockers, leaning in to capture his mouth again, feeling his hands sliding up under Ray's shirt, bunching it, running across the bare skin of his ribs. He pulled back just long enough for Fraser to tug the shirt up over his head, and then he was back on him, licking a stripe up Fraser's neck and across his jaw as Ray's fingers went to work on the buttons of the shirt Fraser was wearing. Soon that joined his on the floor and he was standing there with his hands planted on the cool locker behind Fraser, finding that spot on Fraser's collarbone that made him gasp out Ray's name in a strangled voice.

He felt Fraser's fingers tracing the skin on his arm, and it took him a moment or two to realize that they were skimming across the lines of his tattoo, brushing over it so lightly that it almost tickled. He pulled back a little, maybe to say something, maybe to kiss Fraser again, but then they were turning and Ray was the one whose back was pressed up against the cold metal of the lockers, while Fraser's lips and teeth took the place of his fingers, sliding across his tattoo.

It was almost enough to distract him from Fraser's hands, which were expertly dancing across the front of his pants, and then there was a sudden freedom, a release of the pressure there as his pants and boxers were pushed down to his ankles. He kicked them off, hearing them land somewhere halfway across the room, and he didn't care, oh god he didn't care at all, because then Fraser's mouth was gone from his arm and it was sliding across his stomach as Fraser slipped down to kneel in front of Ray.

"Frase—" he managed to choke out, "Fraser, hey." And Fraser was looking up at him with those big eyes, those big _innocent_ eyes, kneeling on the fucking floor with his hands resting lightly against Ray's hips. "Shit, do you…I mean, have you…" he shook his head, completely at a loss, but Fraser seemed to get what he was asking.

"I know what I'm doing, Ray," he said simply. Then a wicked glint appeared in his eyes and he added, "from what I hear, the trick is to _just open your mouth and stick it in_."

"Jesus," Ray muttered, and then all coherent thought fled from his mind as one of Fraser's hands drifted down from his hip to grip him and then Fraser leaned in and all he could think was _heat_ , and _good_ , and _ohgodFraser_ , and maybe he was saying it, maybe it was just flashing behind his eyes, but it didn't matter, because Fraser made this sound, deep in his throat, and Ray felt it in every nerve in his body, and he was done, gone, head flung back against the lockers, hands sliding across the slick metal, trying to find something, anything, to cling onto, until they flew forward and locked into Fraser's hair while he gasped out something that might have been Fraser's name if it had consisted of anything but vowels.

Eventually he became conscious of the fact that his fingers were threaded through Fraser's hair in a way that was probably pretty painful, and he forced them to relax, to brush across the hair they had abused, then slide down to Fraser's jaw, tipping his face up so he could look at him. "Hey," he said hoarsely as their eyes met, and he tugged lightly on Fraser's jaw. "Get up here." Fraser staggered to his feet and Ray kissed him, slow and hard. He slipped his hand down towards the front of Fraser's pants, but then Fraser pulled back, shaking his head.

"Ray," he said, and didn't seem to know how to continue, but Ray had already felt the patch of wetness there, and was looking at Fraser intently.

"You…" he gestured towards Fraser's pants. "I mean…you…" He felt his eyebrows lift. "Just from…" he waved a hand at himself.

"I'm sorry, Ray," said Fraser, turning bright red, and Ray couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"Sorry? Shit, Frase. That's…that's just about the hottest thing I've ever heard."

If possible, Fraser turned even redder, and Ray couldn't help leaning in to kiss him again, hand sliding down to slip into the back pocket of his jeans. "Let's get out of here," he whispered against Fraser's skin as he pulled away, and Fraser nodded a little numbly, reaching down to pick up his shirt from the floor. Ray had a harder time locating his clothes, and by the time he had straightened himself out enough to emerge back into public, Fraser was leaning against the wall by the door, watching him, uniform bundled up in his arms. Ray walked over, took the uniform, and stuffed it into his locker, ignoring the little sounds of protest Fraser tried to make.

"Can't hang onto that and keep yourself on a bike at the same time," Ray told him, and saw a brief flicker of uncertainty flash across Fraser's face. He pushed open the door and held it open for Fraser to pass through ahead of him. "You didn't think you were really going to that crapbox hotel, did you? You and the wolf are staying with me. Oh." He frowned. "Well, I don't know how I'm going to get him back to my place…"

"Is it far?" Fraser asked, and Ray shook his head.

"About a five minute drive."

"He can follow us," Fraser said. "It'd do him good, having a walk after that horrendous dinner he ate." This last part was said in the direction of the wolf, who was watching them impassively. "Did you hear that?" Fraser asked him in his _talking to obstinate beasts_ voice that he'd used on Ray at least a few times today. "You're going to follow us back to Ray's. Understood?" Dief whined, but Fraser shook his head. "You're not tired. You've been sleeping here this whole time. I think you can manage a short walk."

Ray leaned against the fence, smiling. "You ready to go, or do you want to talk to the deaf animal some more?"

Fraser raised an eyebrow at him. "Impatient, Ray?"

"You have no idea." Fraser flushed, and Ray smiled. Their footsteps fell into a matching pattern as they crossed the field, and there ahead of them in the parking lot sat the bike, their freedom, their ticket to anywhere.

Their shadows stretched and folded into one as they walked further from the lights.


End file.
